Five Stages
by BreakYourPrettyWings
Summary: Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. But sometimes acceptance only means that your hands don't tremble as you raise a gun to your head. TW: Thoughts of/attempted suicide. See inside notes.
1. This is My Note

_**Note: (Trigger warning- thoughts of/attempted suicide.) Considering continuing on with this, but I am as of yet unsure. At this very moment, it exists as a oneshot. Let me know what you think, I suppose.**_

"_I was so lost." _The words came out whispered like a prayer to a harsh god or an avenging angel.

"I was so lost when you found me and then-" A gasp for air as sobs threatened to choke off his words. "…And then I got lost in you." John smiled. It was a bitter smile marred by the tears now running down his face, but a smile nonetheless. The tears mixed with the gentle rain that fell from a threateningly grey sky.

"It was better that way," he continued, knees beginning to ache from holding his weight as he kneeled on the cold ground. "I wasn't really living before then. From the moment when I thought I might die, that was it. I might as well have been dead for the way I went about my life. But then you-" he choked again. "You changed that."

He shivered against the biting chill, trying to ignore the growing aches in his joints. It didn't matter. "But then you- you left. You left me alone with nothing but this," he gestured angrily to the stone slab in front of him, to the engraving on its surface. "Nothing but a name, and a ruined one at that." He may not have believed the lies, but the rest of London and the world had decided for themselves. Fake. Liar. Con. _Freak._

The former army doctor shook his head violently, sending little droplets of water flying. "You left me!" he yelled, voice hoarse and broken. "You ruined everything, took back everything you had given me!"

The anger came and was gone just as quickly, leaving him feeling empty once more. "I just want to know _why_. I need to know what I did wrong. Was it- was it because…" He couldn't say those words out loud. He didn't dare, not even now. How could he when they had never been spoken when Sherlock had still been there? How could he admit that he only had the courage to accept the truth once his best friend was gone? _I love you_. Those words made him sick. The potential future that had once been before him, that had crashed, burned, died with Sherlock was unbearable to think about.

John had been so, so very stupid. Denial and fear and the need for _something_ in his life to just be normal- it all may have ruined what could have been the best thing in his life. It could have pushed Sherlock off of that ledge. John could remember every heated glance now. Every casual touch that had simply lingered longer than what usually went on between two people who were simply friends. Every word that seemed to hold a different weight or meaning than it should have. He remembered – although vaguely – coming home from a night at the pub, drunk out of head, and pressing a sloppy kiss to Sherlock's lips. He remembered the way the man froze, how he simply stared at John for a long moment with an unreadable expression before ushering him into bed, murmuring things like, _"You're drunk, John. You need to sleep now, John." _And he remembered wondering the next morning whether or not he had imagined the gentle caress, the fingers running through his hair in the dark of his room right before he passed out. Now, he knew somehow that he had _not_ imagined it.

All of those things stood out in his mind now, sharp and vivid and utterly agonizing. _"I'm not gay. He's not my date. We're just friends_." Denial after denial after denial, simply because he had been afraid. Because Sherlock was cold and unaffected by anything and couldn't _possibly_ ever feel for_ him_, John Hamish Watson. But he saw everything in focus now that he had never been able to piece together before. Sherlock had not only felt for him. He had loved him. And maybe, maybe if John hadn't been such a stupid prick, he could have seen that. He could have saved the detective, just as Sherlock had once saved him.

It was too late for all of that. He was sobbing in earnest now, body shaking uncontrollably between the emotion that threatened to rip him open and the cold that was sinking into his bones. "_I'm sorry_," he gasped. "I never told you- I never told you."

And now he was alone. Jobless. Friendless. He'd be homeless if it weren't for Mrs. Hudson, and she was barely making it through without his and Sherlock's rent. His trembling hands steadied as he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his gun. He stared at it grimly for a moment, lips pressed into a tight line as he regarded the weapon with equal interest and bitterness. His gaze went back to the tombstone, to the name that was etched there. "It would only make sense for me to come here," he explained quietly, voice barely working at this point. "This, um. This is my- my note," he whispered, eyes falling to the ground once more. He raised the barrel to his head, pausing momentarily to wave it at the headstone. "You should've known. You should have figured it out, that you couldn't just leave me like that." He bit his lip, jaw quivering slightly as he put the gun back up to his temple.

John closed his eyes, and for a moment he could imagine that Sherlock would be right there waiting for him-

There was a hand on his shoulder, and someone pulling the gun from his loose grip at the same time. His eyes jerked open just as he was pulled backward, off of his knees and into a suffocating embrace. John's – savior? Attacker? – ran a hand through his hair, and he could feel their chest heaving with muffled sobs. And he relaxed, melted into the warmth of the body pressed against his, because he remembered that touch. This could only be one person. He couldn't believe it, couldn't remember actually pulling the trigger, but he must have. Because he shifted his body, turned to look into those sorrow-filled ice blue eyes weeping over him, and he knew that he couldn't still be alive. He was in Sherlock Holmes' arms, at last.


	2. Denial

John had never been particularly religious. He had been raised in a church-going household, had attended Sunday services as a young boy. But God hadn't stopped his father from being an alcoholic, nor had He encouraged John's mother to stand up to her husband when the man had a few too many drinks in him. Maybe God existed, and maybe He didn't. John had simply decided that he would find out for himself eventually when his life was over. And yet, in moments of pure crisis, sometimes he found himself praying, regardless of his doubts. _Please God, let me live._

But God or no God, there was certainly an afterlife. He knew that now.

_"John."_ The word was so full of pain and sorrow that the doctor flinched. "What did you think you were doing?" Sherlock managed, voice thick and shocked.

Still nestled comfortably in the detective's arms, John stared up at him in disbelief for a moment, tears still leaking out of his eyes. "I was coming after you, you git," he mumbled, voice sticking in his throat. He gave a small smile. "You waited for me."

Relieved, slightly hysterical laughter bubbled out of his throat, and he clutched at Sherlock's coat, feeling as though he needed as much contact with the man as possible. "You were right here waiting. God Sherlock, I missed you so much." He buried his face in the detective's chest, trembling, and he marveled at the fact that he was still so cold. Wasn't death supposed to be something…different? But then what did it matter what death was like, if Sherlock was there with him? John was sure he could face any Hell so long as the two of them were united.

Expressions flickered behind Sherlock's eyes in rapid succession. John watched them, read them, from confusion to understanding. Understanding to sorrow. Sorrow to a quiet kind of sadness that made his heart ache in sympathy. "You didn't pull the trigger, John," Sherlock murmured. He pushed rain-slicked hair away from John's forehead, and the doctor closed his eyes, giving a small sigh at the touch. "What are you talking about?" he mumbled, suddenly uncomfortable and a little ashamed of his actions after hearing Sherlock say that. But why should he be? Sherlock left him first. He had given him little choice.

The blonde let out an indignant grunt as Sherlock shifted, pulling him into a sitting position. Those icy blue eyes pierced his as the man stared at him intently, taking him by the shoulders, grip firm. "I took the gun from your hand, John," Sherlock articulated, each word clear and cutting.

John stared back, eyebrows furrowed and lips parted slightly as he struggled to understand what he was being told. "Yeah, you did…" he replied slowly. "Look, I'm sorry if this isn't how you wanted things to go, but you-" he bit his lips, struggling to find the words he needed to say. "You left me. You died for no reason, and you expected me to just stay behind? No." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, but no. You should have figured that I would follow you. I've done nothing but that ever since I met you."

Sherlock sat there looking dumbfounded for perhaps the first time John could ever recall. And as he looked at this man he had so longed to see, the doctor couldn't help but feel that he was different. Those cheeks and eyes were more hollow and gaunt. His hair was shorter than John had ever seen it. He looked weary- the kind of weary that John had frankly thought the detective incapable of. "Is that what you think?" Sherlock asked incredulously. "That you've died?" He seemed to crumble, and John had to think again that this Sherlock was broken somehow. "I took the gun from your hand before you had a chance to use it," Sherlock murmured, low and insistent. "I have so much to explain to you, John, but first you _have_ to understand that I never died, and neither did you."

"What are you-" John stopped, shaking his head. "You _died_," he insisted, voice trembling slightly. "I was there, Sherlock. I watched you fall. And you'll never know-" he swallowed thickly, trying and failing to keep his voice even. "You never know how hard that was, what it did to me."

The man raised a hand to cradle John's face, but the blonde jerked away from his touch. Sherlock's lips tightened, but he lowered his hand, staring at the ground for a moment before replying. "I know what you saw – what you thought that you saw – but it was fake. I faked it. All of it."

"No," John growled. "No! There was no pulse! I checked! Your heart wasn't beating, Sherlock, and the blood-" his anger subsided into tremors that ran through his body uncontrollably as he recalled that day. "Don't tell me that it was fake. Because I know it wasn't. And even you couldn't do that to me. There were times when I thought you could be cold, Sherlock, but I refuse to believe that you were capable of that."

The dark-haired man opened his mouth to reply, but seemed to think better of it. He shook his head, tapping on John's arm softly. "Let's go home, John. Out of the rain, at least."

He sounded so resigned, but John knew better. There was no resignation when Sherlock Holmes was concerned. He played the part well, but there would be hell to pay later. And yet, John relented. He was sick of shivering anyhow. He nodded and got to his feet, offering Sherlock his hand. The two of them simply stared at each other for a moment before Sherlock took it, his pale fingers wrapping around the doctor's wrist as he stood up.

They stood there like that for what seemed like an eternity, hands connected, eyes searching each other. And it was only then that John finally broke down. He launched himself into Sherlock's arms, causing the man to stumble back a few steps. He was crying, choking once again, words falling from his lips as rapidly as the rain continued to fall from the sky, although he wasn't even quite sure what he was saying. But he knew he was sorry. He was so, so sorry for being so weak. And he was angry. He was so angry with Sherlock for _ever_ thinking that he could leave him behind. They stayed that way for a long time, with Sherlock's arms around John as the doctor spewed out apologies and accusations and confessions. He confessed to nearly everything, except for _the_ confession. In the end, that confession was all that mattered, but it was still too terrifying to face.

Eventually John quieted somewhat, and he let Sherlock lead him from the cemetery hiccupping and suffering from a headache after the breakdown. He clung to the taller man as they went out to the road and caught a cab, not letting go as they travelled back to the only place in the world John really wanted to be right now: 221B. He remained silent throughout the car ride, up the stairs, into the flat, just mutely clinging to the man who had left him so very long ago. Sherlock sat him down on the sofa, murmuring something about tea, but John grabbed at his wrist before he could walk away, eyes swimming with tears that threatened to spill over once again at any moment.

Sherlock relented, taking a seat on the sofa next to John, putting an arm around him. The doctor nestled up against the detective, no longer denying himself this luxury as he had for so long in life. He noted that Sherlock was glancing about the flat, inspecting everything with his eyes only; he didn't move a muscle. He was undoubtedly deducing the hell out of things that John didn't even know _could_ be deduced.

It was a good long while before John allowed Sherlock to get off of the sofa, and he realized afterwards exactly how much patience and self-restraint it must have taken the man to stay there with him. Nonetheless, while he allowed Sherlock to get up and move about, John was always close behind, never letting the detective out of his sight. Part of him feared that if he were to look away or blink too long or even think too hard, the man would disappear, and what would John do then? Eventually, Sherlock insisted upon feeding him and ordered Chinese. They didn't speak much, but John figured that that could come later. After all, they had forever now in theory, didn't they?

Instead they kept each other silent company as they so often had before. Sherlock went about the flat, John trailing him, and he picked up or touched every iconic belonging of his in the flat, giving the doctor some odd, meaningful glance as he did so. First it was the violin, and oh, didn't it just make John's heart ache as those graceful fingers took to the instrument, plucking a string and frowning as a puff of dust rose along with a distinctly out of tune sound. Next it was the skull. He took it in his hand, seeming to weigh it, giving a smirk before his eyes flicked over to John. Then the microscope. He bent over, adjusting the knobs as he looked into the eyepiece at a slide that had been left there untouched all these years. After a moment of inspection he turned back to John once more, and the doctor had a feeling that he too was some kind of specimen under a lens.

Sherlock continued about that way for some time, and every expression he directed at John seemed to hold some kind of meaning that the blonde found he couldn't quite grasp. Something like, _"See me, John? See what I'm doing now? Are you watching, John? Because I'm doing this for you. I'm here…for _you_."_

They stayed in the flat for days, only venturing out if absolutely necessary, and life at Baker Street seemed much like it had once been. It took John a full week of living and breathing with Sherlock before he broke down once more, realizing the truth at last. Denial lost its hold and the scales fell from his eyes. Because this _was_ life, wasn't it? He sank to the floor, sobbing, and the detective knelt there with him, holding him and being more patient and affectionate than he had ever been. Despite the fact that his heart had never stopped beating, John hadn't been alive for a very long time. The pain and the relief and the love coursing through him now though as he realized the truth proved to him that he was living his life. And more than that, he was living it with Sherlock Holmes once again.


End file.
